Got Your Number
by Britani Gael
Summary: [crossover with Psych] While investigating a series of strange deaths, the Winchester brothers head to Santa Barbara, where they seek help from a local psychic, Shawn Spencer.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Got Your Number  
**Author**: Britani Gael  
**Fandom**: Psych/Supernatural  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Words**: 2992  
**Summary**: Crossover; while investigating a series of strange deaths, the Winchester brothers head to Santa Barbara, where they seek help from a local psychic, Shawn Spencer.  
**Author's Notes**: Written for the psychoutnabout community on LiveJournal -- it's a runaway plot bunny that was supposed to be a one-shot, so I have no idea no long it'll be. But it's a hell of a lot of fun to write.

* * *

Shawn doesn't think of the word zombie until much much later. This is perfectly natural, he thinks, because honestly, who thinks about zombies on a day to day basis? Even spending an entire day at the sight of a freaky multiple muurder isn't enough to get his mind working on the topic of the undead. No, at the time, the word he's thinking is _burrito_.

As in, he could really go for some burritos right about now.

Shawn coughs theatrically and glances around the white-walled room, noting that he's been left alone with a corpse and that probably hasn't happened on purpose. The voice he hears drifting in from the next room confirms his suspicions: "Just where the hell is Spencer?"

He kind of wishes Gus hasn't gone off somewhere to throw up, but he really can't blame him. Even if that was more than an hour ago.

Making mental notes of this room isn't going to be hard.

It's exactly square and it has featureless walls, no furniture, and the floor is stark white linoleum. The body at Shawn's feet is one of five in the house, all about the same, except the others are the wife and nearly grown children of Jim Rodriguez. They aren't grisly or gross. What they_ are_ is really freaking weird, and he needs to talk about this out loud, and this is why he needs Gus.

But on with the checklist.

This guy – his name is Jim Rodriguez – he's average height, average build, light brown hair, dressed head to toe in business casual. Normal enough. But though he's clearly dead there isn't a mark on him; his hands are curled into fists and his arms are crossed, and he has a huge smile across his face.

No, not a smile. This is clearly a smirk.

And that's what's weird. The unholy smile is scary.

"Spencer!"

Yeah, he'd totally been left here on accident. Shawn sticks his hands in his pockets and spins around, making sure to paste a goofy grin on his face.

Lassiter's entered the room alone – Jules is still in the study, probably taking notes. His look says that he is Definitely Not Amused, but just because Shawn can see everything doesn't mean he can't ignore the bits he doesn't like. He puts a hand to his temple. "I sense you've been looking for me," he says.

Lassiter acts like he hasn't said anything. "Why are you still here?"

"Um," Shawn says, dropping his hand. "This is my job, isn't it? Am I in the wrong place?" Did I hallucinate the last year of my life?"

Lassiter sighs heavily. "I don't have the time for this."

"Oh my God! If this isn't my real job, then where is my Oscar Meyer wiener—"

"Spencer, you are over your head. _Go home_."

Shawn blinks; Lassiter definitely isn't kidding. Okay, so maybe this is a bit more… serious than the crimes he likes to solve, but that doesn't mean he can't handle this one, too. "Haven't we done this dance before?"

"This is a different kind of crime, Spencer," Lassiter says, stepping next to Jim Rodriguez and staring down at him with a frown. "There's a real sick bastard responsible for this one."

Shawn wants to point out that he knows his own last name and save Lassy the trouble of tacking it onto every other sentence, but he knows why the man's frustrated. He'd overheard one of the forensic guys say something about poison and he doesn't need to be a cop himself to know that this doesn't go near enough to explain things.

So Shawn decides to rub it in. "You can tell your buddies at the lab that this isn't poison."

"Really." Lassiter's tone is so sarcastic Shawn can almost but not quite miss the hints of curiosity in his face – the slightly raised eyebrows, the pursed mouth. "Okay," he says. "Just how did you divine _that_?"

"Easy." Shawn points at the body. "The only way poison could cause that expression is if Jack Nicholson is somehow responsible."

Lassiter looks at him.

"What, you never saw Batman?"

Lassiter points at the door. "_Out_."

"Fine, fine." Shawn casts another quick glance around the room – and he has no idea why, because seeing it once means it's in his head for good, and he can look at it again any time he feels like it. Which is probably going to be never. This crime scene is wrong on a lot of levels, but that's why he's looking.

He still can't figure it out.

"Spencer!"

"Going!" He squeezes his eyes shut because it seems like that's the only way he's going to be able to pull himself away – he needs to find Gus, and they need to talk. No way the guy's still feeling queasy. He starts for the door. "If I _feel_ anything, I'll know who to call."

"Spencer!"

Shawn turns around. "Lassy, I know what my—" He breaks off with a strangled noise, and then, "Oh." Lassiter's shouting something and Shawn can't make it out. "Oh."

Jim Rodriguez blinks up at him.

_Oh_.

It's like a movie. Jim Rodriguez is staring at him with cloudy eyes, he's struggling to get to his feet, and Shawn's just watching him with a kind of distant fascination. He's still staring, fixed on Shawn for some reason he'll never tell. His skin is gray and his joints are obviously locking up but Jim Rodriguez just keeps on trucking, finding his shaky balance as he takes a tiny step forward.

And another and another.

Shawn's surprised when his back hits the wall.

"Spencer, _get down_!"

Shawn ducks and shuts his eyes, and then it's all explosions and gunpowder smoke.

* * *

"Dude, look at this."

Dean's much more interested in the greasy eggs and bacon masquerading as breakfast this morning, but he glances across the counter at the laptop screen anyway. "What am I looking at?"

"The news."

"Is this about the missing kids in Fresno?"

Sam shakes his head and takes a swing of orange juice. "No, that turned out to be nothing."

Dean rolls his eyes at that – their last job was a haunting in Lake Tahoe, so it's not exactly like California was out of their way, but it's still lost time they could have spent driving to someplace with some work. "So, what am I looking at, then?"

"Just read it, Dean."

Dean makes a point to not wipe the grease off his hands before he slides the computer towards him, leaving ugly fingerprints on the screen as he tilts it forward. "Suit yourself, man," he says, cutting off Sam's sputtering protests, and he starts reading.

It's not very interesting.

"So some cop shoots some guy," he says after a minute, going back to his eggs. "Hate to say it, Sammy, but violence ain't exactly a hallmark of the supernatural."

Sam snatches his laptop back, and while Dean's pretty sure he's not an idiot that's not what his brother's face is telling him right now. "Did you even _read_ it?"

"Sure. Santa Barbara, right? Some realtor killed his whole family and attacked the cops." Dean waves for the check, which he's not entirely sure he can cover, not if the Vince Morrison flavor of Amex doesn't pull through for them. "Sounds real awful but not our kind of problem."

"The guy was already dead, Dean," Sam says, talking real slow and patient-like.

"Where'd it say _that_?"

Sam scrolls down the webpage. "It doesn't. This is the news. But look here." Dean reaches out with his greasy fingers, and Sam changes his mind. "You know what? Nevermind," Sam says, holding the computer out of his reach. "Just listen."

Dean waits for twenty solid seconds. "Well?"

"Just making sure you were listening," Sam says, and then he starts reading. "_What struck authorities as especially strange was the fact that Rodriguez had been proclaimed dead at the scene hours before the attack. Detective Lassiter—_"

"Who's that?"

"The officer who shot Rodriguez."

"And Rodriguez is the zombie."

"I _knew_ you didn't read it."

Dean shrugs.

The girl with the check comes, so they hush up with the zombie talk long enough to hand her the card. Dean's considering just sliding away while the girl's ringing it up – he's _really_ sure that card's not going to work, and he doesn't have another one with the same name on it – but Sam's fiddling around with the keyboard again. "There's something else."

"What?" Dean asks.

"Before the cop shot him, Rodriguez was apparently attacking a psychic."

"Huh." That isn't really surprising. Like he's warned Sam time and time again, ghosts and other nasties tend to be attracted to anyone with those special connections – hell, even _knowing_ about the supernatural seems to be enough to guarantee it mucking up your life. "You got a name?"

"Yeah." Sam pulls up another window. "Shawn Spencer. I guess he's kind of well known around there."

"He legit?"

"No idea, but he works with the police. We'll have to be careful if we talk to him."

Because if he _is_ the real thing, he'll know what they are already – but if he isn't, he can turn them into the cops faster than their head can spin, and that'll be bad all around.

"Thanks for joining us this morning," the waitress beams at them, returning the credit card and holding out a pen. "I hope everything was alright."

"It was great," Dean grins, not sure he'll ever get the taste of oil out of the back of his throat. He takes the pen and scrawls in a generous tip. "So," he says, glancing at Sam. "How far is it to Santa Barbara?"

* * *

Normally, Shawn loves being on the television – he's got his every planned appearance saved on his Tivo – but this time not only has he refused to talk to any reporters, he's refused to talk about it period. Gus isn't sure if he's more upset about almost getting killed or owing his life to Lassiter. Knowing Shawn, it's probably both.

Whatever it is, it's made Shawn act weird for days, and Gus has no idea what he's supposed to do about it.

"So," he says, standing in Shawn's office and trying to remember that they're running a business here, however shoddy their practices might be. "We _aren't_ taking the new case? The one with the record store robberies?"

Shawn puts his feet up on his desk and gives Gus a pointed look. "Oh, I don't know. Does that sound even remotely interesting?"

"Not really, but—"

"Then no." Shawn is staring up at the ceiling and obviously not really listening. "They don't need our help for this one."

"Okay," Gus says, reaching for cell. "I'll call the chief and say that sorry, we think some crime is just too boring for us. Please feel free to call again." That's not really what he's going to do. As soon as he walks out of here he's going to call Juliet and tell her that Shawn's obviously traumatized and maybe ask for some advice.

Shawn's never refused to solve a case, even if he bemoaned some of their criminal lameness the second he stepped out of the police station. More worrying was the fact that he's barely done anything for four straight days, and Gus has _never_ seen him sit still for that long.

Well, maybe that one time in fifth grade – but he'd had chicken pox and Henry had forbid him to leave the house.

"Shawn," Gus says, because he still hasn't gotten a response. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"Not at all."

"Shawn."

"What?"

Gus counts to ten in his head, and then, "If you're not planning on doing any actual _work_, then why are you here?"

"The phone at my house keeps ringing. And I like it here. You know, we've really done a lot of good with this place." He gestures around the office. "These windows, the paint! It's—"

"Your dad's started calling _me_," Gus says, interrupting what was sure to be a distracting string of irrelevance. "He says you've been avoiding him since Saturday."

Shawn shrugs.

"You were on the news! He's worried!"

"Dude, my dad doesn't—would you say I'm a stalkable person?"

It takes Gus a second to track this sudden change of subject, and he blinks.

"Tall, nice hair." Shawn nods towards the window, and like an idiot Gus turns around to look. Sure enough, there's a very tall guy out there with incredibly nice hair, and maybe he's twenty-four. He looks like a college student, and not really all that interested in Psych.

"He's eating a hot dog," Gus points out.

"He's been here twice already," Shawn counters. "The second time I thought he was lost, but now? I think I have an admirer."

The problem with Shawn is that he's almost always right, so often that you can argue with him and he won't care. He knows the odds are in his favor. Gus doesn't even bother with anything but the most half-hearted protests unless it's a question of judgment, a leave-the-bungee-jumping-to-the-professionals issue he can't trust his friend to work out the hard way.

And now, straight to pattern, as soon as he opens his mouth to disagree with the whole stalker theory, the very tall man gives them both a furtive glance through the window. He catches them both staring at him—

"Gus, don't _look!_"

—and before either of them can try and look nonchalant, he's walking.

"Come on, man," Shawn says, jumping to his feet and heading for the door. "We don't want to lose him."

And straight to pattern, again, Gus is out the door right behind him. "We don't? Why not?" Long Legs is pretty good at faking casual, because he looks completely calm and ordinary as he's striding away so fast they have to half-jog to even start to catch up.

"Because he looks friendly," Shawn says, and then he cups his hands around his mouth. Gus suddenly realizes that _this is a judgment issue_ but a fraction of a second too late – Shawn's already calling, "Hey! You! _Guy!_ Slow up! I mean down! I mean—which is it, Gus? Slow up or slow down?"

"He's coming back."

Long Legs must know he's the one getting yelled at, but he hesitates for a second or two before he turns around, and he doesn't look all that thrilled about it. Gus doesn't know why. Once he gets a little closer he's even taller than he looks and it's obvious he could fold both of them in half, twist their heads around and string up their teeth to decorate his Christmas tree – with his bare hands, without even trying – but he looks only a shade short of nervous when he approaches them.

"Wow," Shawn says. "He is completely faking that."

Gus is about to ask him what he means, but then Long Legs is in earshot.

"Excuse me," Shawn says. "I couldn't help but notice—"

"Yeah," Long Legs says sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I was kind of caught by surprise, and—"

This is everything a psychic needs to hear.

"_Stop_," Shawn intones, touching both his temples. He jerks around sharply to the right, and to the left, and his eyes are rolling around behind his eyelids and before anyone can interrupt his pseudo-seizure he says, "I sense… that you are about to lie to me."

Gus sucks in a breath.

"You're right," Long Legs says, his eyes slightly narrowed. "How did you know?"

Gus lets his breath out.

Long Legs scratches the back of his head and looks around. "Do you… _know_ anything else?"

Shawn might. Probably not, even though he's looking at Long Legs significantly. That means he's got a hunch he's soon to work into a theory, but for now he nods and nods again. "I think," he says, "that you should tell me why it is you're really here."

Long Legs looks around again – looking for someone, probably, though Shawn would know for sure. "My name is Sam," he says finally. "I need to talk to you about something that might have happened to you a couple of days ago."

"Of course," Shawn says, and you'd have to be his best friend to notice the hint of distress on his face. "We should go somewhere private to discuss it." He sounds so very businesslike.

Long Legs—Sam looks around again, and reaches into his jacket. "Sure, but I gotta—"

Shawn nods sympathetically. "Just tell him you'll be a few minutes. This won't take long."

Sam's pulled something halfway out of his jacket pocket, and the something is a pretty nice cell phone. He pauses at the comment, and says, "You knew I was going to make a call?"

"I certainly did," Shawn said. Not a lie, though he'd been guessing on the pronoun for sure.

"Where do you want to talk?"

"Back at my office."

Sam nods.

They start walking and Gus starts following, when Shawn cuts him off with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He feels a sinking feeling in his chest when Shawn tells the new guy, "I'll catch up with you!" and lets himself fall behind.

"Shawn, what are you doing?" Gus asks.

"I'll explain later," he says, and then he leans in and whispers. "He's driving a black hotrod, old. Might be an Impala. I don't know where he left it, so take a walk around the block and get the plates."

Gus doesn't ask how Shawn knows that; he just takes it as a fact and starts walking with a sour look on his face. He knows he'll find the car and he knows it's going to be important somehow, and he knows that as soon as he's done he's going to get lunch.

And it doesn't bother him, getting left out of this again. Not in the least.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**  
**Author's Notes**: Just so you guys know, I have serious formatting issues with So if there's any problems with this, let me know and I'll be sure to try to fix it.

* * *

The plan was to talk to Detective Lassiter – meaning the head detective around here, and also the guy in charge of investigating the Rodriguez murders. Meeting with the cops is never the way to make Dean's day, but they have to start somewhere, and Sam's already booked the easy job.

Problem is, Detective Lassiter isn't in. Would it be alright to speak with his extremely pretty partner instead?

Oh, hell, why not?

"I'm sorry." Detective Juliet O'Hara says, wrinkling her forehead in a way that's kind of adorable. She's blonde and cute and definitely a cop, and her eyes are sharp as she looks at him, drumming her fingers on her desk. "I wasn't even aware that Mr. Rodriguez had any family in the area." She winces. "I mean, besides…"

"My cousins, I know," Dean says, fake-suppressing a fake-shudder. "I was heading up here to see if I couldn't find some work, and I stopped by Uncle Jim's and…"

"God, I'm sorry," she says. "Someone should have contacted you."

"I don't blame you guys," Dean says. How could he? Even he didn't know he was going to be a nephew until this morning. "You must be busy. It's just… I'd like to know what happened, is all."

She hesitates.

"I understand," Dean says, and he does. This is sensitive stuff. He leans back and glances around. "Me and Uncle Jim, we weren't all that close. But I read what the papers said, and I don't think he did it."

O'Hara chews on her lower lip.

Usually cops make the list of Dean's least favorite things, but at least a couple of them are actually trying to make the world a better place – just like him and Sam – and he doesn't like taking advantage of the well-meaning people like Detective O'Hara. Problem was, those are the easy ones, and it only takes a word: "Please."

She pauses a second longer, and then she nods. "Maybe you can help me."

She pulls a yellow legal pad out of her desk, and a pen to go with it. Dean recognizes that now it's seriously interview time, even if the pen's got a pink flower taped to the end of it.

"It's so no one takes it," O'Hara says, waving the pen. She must've seen him smirk."

"Ah."

"Was your uncle involved in any illegal activities, to your knowledge?"

"Nope," Dean says, which is true. Well, almost. Rodriguez isn't really his uncle.

"Was any member of the family?"

"Don't think so." The trick to an interview is to get information instead of give it – and it's not as if he can tell her anything that'll help. Except maybe to watch out for the teeth of the undead. "But," he says, lowering his voice and leaning forward, "there were always rumors."

She follows suit, leaning forward and whispering. "What kind of rumors?"

"You know," he says, knowing she doesn't. He's making it up on the spot. "About the occult."

She blinks.

Okay, no hits there. But she doesn't think he's nuts for suggesting it, either, and that's something. He chuckles half-heartedly. "I mean, I don't know if it's even true—if you guys didn't find anything…"

"We didn't." She nibbles on the end of her flower-pen, and Dean kind of whishes she wasn't a cop. Again. "We didn't find anything at all."

He raises his eyebrows, an expression he imagines looks confused, yet thoughtful. "What do you mean?"

"The house was empty. Everything was gone, except for the, ah… victims."

_Aha_, he'd like to think. A classic sign of the whatchacallit monster, which has a record in the myths of every culture on the entire freaking planet. But, no. He's got nothing. "Weird," he says, shrugs. "Crazy stuff?"

"What kind of rumors have you heard?" she asks.

He doesn't have to answer that, because the phone on her desk starts jangling.

"This is O'Hara," she answers. The receiver grumbles something, and she frowns. "Gus? What do you – no? I can't, I'm with…"

"Oh, don't mind me." Dean says.

She doesn't. She swivels around in her chair so she's half turned away, which doesn't make a very good sound barrier. "I know it's important," she says, "because it always is."

The phone grumbles.

"I can't," she says. "I mean, I shouldn't." O'Hara covers the receiver with her hand. "I'm not going to do it," she whispers at Dean. "I'm not supposed to."

That, of course, means she'll do her friend this favor just as soon as Dean turns away. The corners of his lips twitch. "I won't tell."

She talks back into the phone. "Okay, Gus. I'll try to take care of it later. Just give me the number, and I'll call you back." She scrawls it down at the top of her legal pad, and doodles a big boxy rectangle around it. "KAZ 2Y5, okay. I'll talk to you later."

She hangs up. It takes her a second, which gives Dean the time he needs to stare at the series of letters and numbers and think, _God fucking DAMNIT_.

He's smiling when she looks back at him.

"So," she says. "Mr. Young—"

This time it's his phone that rings. He checks the caller ID even though he knows who it is.

"Sam," he answers. What he really wants to say is _where the fuck is my car_ but he settles for, "Can't really talk now. I'm at the station."

"Oh," Sam says. "How's that going?"

Dean glances at O'Hara, but she's on the phone again and not listening. Probably. "Just peachy," he says. Sam knows that translates to, _I've got nothing_.

"I have something. There's been another incident, at the morgue. Not far from the police station." Someone says something in the background. "Three blocks," Sam says.

"Who's with you?" Dean asks.

"The psychic. We're heading over there now, can you get here?"

"The psychic? Is he legit?"

The line's quiet for several seconds. "I don't know."

That's just… _peachy_. "Great," Dean says, forgetting for a second that's he's supposed to be too bereaved to use sarcasm. "I'll head over now." He moves to hang up, and then thinks better of it. "Sam, before you go."

"Yeah?"

"Make sure you feed the meter."

Another pause. "Um, Dean? What are you—"

Dean talks right over him. "Yeah, I seriously can't afford to get another ticket." Not one of their code words, but hopefully this would give Sammy some kind of vague warning. "It's my car, you know."

Sam's quiet again, and Dean can hear some kind of pop crap coming in over the radio. Then, "Okay, I'll take care of it."

"Right."

Dean and O'Hara hang up at the same time.

"Listen—" Dean starts.

"I'm sorry," O'Hara says. "I've got to go. There's been a…" She bites her tongue; that's probably not the stuff she's supposed to share. "An incident."

"Another murder?"

She stares at him, even as she grabs her keys and pulls her bag over one shoulder. "How did you know that?" she asks.

Dean gestures at his phone. "That was my brother. We read in the papers that there was some kinda psychic involved, so he went to see him, and—"

"Shawn?" O'Hara asks. "You mean Shawn Spencer?" She's got a funny look on her face, like the wheels in her head are turning, and Dean has no idea what the hell that means.

So, "Yeah."

She gives him a puzzled look.

If she runs the plates this situation could spiral pretty easily – Dean can't even figure out a way to get the job done while having the dodge the police, too. Things are probably going to get ugly, and fast, and all Dean can think to do for now is to keep O'Hara in his sight.

This probably isn't going to work, but, hell, anything's worth a try. "Hey," he says, catching her just as she starts to walk away. "Do you think I could catch a ride?"

* * *

Never in Sam's life has waltzing onto a crime scene been so easy.

Sam follows as the psychic ducks under the yellow tape and strides through the sea of blue uniforms as if he belongs there – more than a couple of the cops nod approvingly. One of them even smiles and waves.

"Hey, Buzz," Shawn responds, just as cheerily.

"So," Sam says. He scans their surrounding uncertainly – there's for sure a body or two around, but everything looks so… surreal. Maybe it's just the sunny California weather. "The cops, they're completely okay with what you do?" Truth is, he's not even sure what it is that Shawn Spencer does, or if he's even really psychic.

"Mostly," Shawn says. He shades his face against the sun and peers at a crowd of people near the entrance of the morgue. "Is your brother on his way?"

Sam hadn't told him that Dean was his brother. That didn't mean he'd read his mind or anything, but how else could he have figured it out? This guy was definitely nothing like Missouri. And he still seemed to know things he couldn't.

"I think Dean's coming, yeah."

"Awesome. You want to see the body?"

_Want_ was a strong word. "It'd help. But the police…" They were all over the place, and without a hell of a convincing story he wasn't going to get close.

Shawn waves his hand casually. "Don't worry about them." He touches his temple. "Today, they are feeling… kind. Friendly. Open in heart and mind. They wouldn't think of—"

"Spencer!"

Shawn sighs. "I apologize for my gross generalizations. Allow me to introduce Detective Lassiter."

Sam recognizes the name – he's the officer quoted in the paper – and the detective clearly recognizes Shawn. Lassiter approaches with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face; however, he doesn't look remotely surprised. "Spencer, what—who is this?" he asks, casting his glare on Sam.

"My new assistant," Shawn says. The way he lies without missing a beat reminds Sam a lot of Dean, but it still bothers him.

"Oh?" Lassiter says. "Did the old one decide to get a _real_ job?"

Shawn rolls his eyes dramatically. "My friend Gus _has_ a real job. In fact, he has several." He raises his hand and begins to count off on his fingers. "He's a salesman, a secretary, and assistance, a money… counter… person, and I'm told he's incredibly successful in the art of Internet poker—"

"Spencer, stop." Lassiter closes his eyes and rubs his temples, and when he opens them again Sam is almost certain the man's casting a sympathetic look in his direction. "What're you doing here?" This time the condescension is gone – Detective Lassiter is really asking a question.

"Looking," Shawn says.

"At?"

"Sir," Sam interrupts. "I understand that you found some bodies under unusual circumstances just a few days ago."

Lassiter freezes, and when he answers he's looking at Shawn but talking to Sam. "How the _hell_ do you know—"

Shawn shakes his head.

"It wasn't him, Detective," Sam says. He knows Dean was pretending to be a relative of the deceased as a cover, but here that's not going to be good enough. "I kind of—I do a lot of research into things like this. I read the story in the papers and thought it sounded real similar to something I researched out in Tucson, Arizona, so I…"

It's so weak. Dean would kick his ass if he knew he was making up such a pathetic cover, but Shawn and the detective are exchanging another significant glance. At first Sam thinks they're about to kick him off the crime scene, but then he realizes it's something else altogether. _They know_, he realizes. The two of them know something about this is so far off the map they're never going to be able to chart it.

"And I think I can help," Sam finishes, lamely.

Detective Lassiter points at him. "_You're_ with _him_." He points at Shawn. "Keep out of the way of real police work, or I'll have you both arrested."

As Lassiter walks away, Shawn pumps his fists. "Alright, you're in," he says. "Now what?"

_Now what?_ Sam frowns, glances around. He's still not sure if they should check out the body, and he's not sure it'd tell him anything anyway. "Do you sense anything here? Any kind of bad energies?"

"Sense. Huh." Shawn glances around, and then he puts his hand to his temple like a movie psychic. "It's definitely a repeat of last time, I'm sensing _that_. Besides, every single cop that was on the last scene is here, too. And they're keeping the press out. And the body's in the same position. There's another one inside. And your brother's here."

He's nothing like Missouri – but how the hell is he managing to figure any of that out? The body's not even visible, Lassiter didn't say a word, and there must be thirty or more cops here. Can he really remember every single face?

Sam turns to look for Dean.

No sign of him, but a green VW bug has just pulled up, and a woman with long blonde hair climbs out of the driver's seat. Shawn starts towards her. He also pulls a chiming cell phone out of his pocket, checks the display, and shoves it back into his pocket without answering.

"Avoiding someone?" Sam asks.

"A couple of them. Jules!" Shawn positively beams, throwing his arms out.

Jules smiles at Shawn, but pauses when she sees Sam. "Where's Gus?" she asks.

"He's, well... very busy," Shawn says. "I've hired a substitute for him, today, this is Sam. He's very good at… seeing over people's heads. Which is important for detective work and stuff."

The passenger door opens, and Dean steps out.

Sam blinks in surprise. He hadn't seen Dean in the car – though he guesses it wouldn't be impossible to see him from that far away. And also to deduce that Dean is his brother, even if Shawn has certainly never met him and they don't really look that much alike. Maybe.

Detective Lassiter's attitude is starting to make a bit more sense. Shawn Spencer is nothing if not a headache.

Sam heads over to Dean.

"Do those two know each other?" he hears Jules ask. "Is that his brother? He mentioned—"

"Ah. No," Shawn answers. "Definitely not. But I felt a peculiar vibe coming off of that man, and so I sent him over to…"

"So," Dean says, once Sam's close enough to hear his hushed tone. "We got more zombies?"

Sam nods. "Looks like two more. And Shawn told me on the way over here, they were definitely dead. The cops aren't saying anything, but the woman who manages this place was in hysterics."

"And Shawn's—"

"The psychic guy, yeah."

Dean frowns. "So, either we've got people coming back from the dead for the fun of it—"

Sam shakes his head. "I've never heard of bodies reanimating by themselves, but we could check Dad's notebook…"

"—Or," Dean continues. "We've got someone on this side of things causing this."

Sam thinks about it. Having a living, breathing enemy to deal with would be a nice change of things – but the living are harder to deal with, since there's no magic words you can use to get them to stop. Still, "Yeah," he says. "Probably that."

"Well, that's great," Dean says sarcastically. "Freaking fantastic."

Someone screams.

Sam and Dean sprint across the lawn, reaching the door to the morgue just as Shawn Spencer comes careening out of it. He's stumbling along with his hands out in front if his face and his eyes are rolled back, like he's sleepwalking, and shouts, "Life! _Life!_"

Policemen and women scatter out of his way.

"I want—_brains_, no, wait! Not brains!" He raises his hands above his head. "The feel… of the sun… so nice." Shawn smiles contentedly. "I didn't ask for this, no, I want…"

He staggers to the right, and then the left.

"What the hell?" Dean hisses. "He channeling a spirit or something?"

Sam doesn't dare answer that.

"No, no! Gus, Gus, it's too strong!" Shawn buries his face in his hands, and behind him, Detective Lassiter is doing something similar. "I can't—I want—this." He mimes a beating heart. "It's all… it's _all wrong_. This place, this time—"

"Shawn?" The blond woman, Jules, asks. "What do you mean?"

"It's not—meant—to be." Shawn puts his hand to his forehead. "Good-bye—cruel—cruel world—" He collapses to the ground, flat on his back, his position exactly the same as the body not fifteen feet from him.

"Dude," Dean says. "That was for _us_."

He could have sent them an email, Sam wants to point out. It would have been a short note: _Check the place and time of death, victim killed by heart attack_. That was, if he's guessed Shawn's message correctly – but something told him that Shawn wasn't exactly subtle.

"He's not psychic," Sam says. "At least, I don't think so. He's just… I have no idea. Not stupid, though. We can't trust him."

Jules kneels beside Shawn and tries to shake him back to his senses. Shawn responds by twitching like an epileptic.

"You know what?" Dean says. "I think I like him."

* * *

Gus is waiting for him outside his apartment.

"Really, Gus," Shawn says. "Rarely are you so proactive." He's trying to ignore the death glare and it's mostly working, even after Gus ripped off his trick. He's been screening his calls for a reason, after all.

He unlocks and opens his door, and Gus follows him inside.

"Shawn, what's going on?" he demands.

Shawn drops his helmet and his jacket on his kitchen table, and heads to his fridge for a beer. "You want anything?" he asks.

"_Shawn_."

"Fine, I think I've got some Dr. Pepper." He rummages around behind the carton of expired milk. "And honestly, Gus, I have no idea what you're talking about. There isn't anything _going on_."

"Really?" Gus is still glaring at him. "Then how come you haven't answered your phone since you ditched me this afternoon?"

Shawn comes out of his kitchen and hands Gus the soda, which he accepts warily. Which Shawn thinks is ridiculous, because how on earth could he tamper with a sealed can like that?

"Dude," he says, "I didn't _ditch_ you. I just, you know…" He waves his hand. "I had stuff."

"Stuff."

"Yeah, stuff."

Gus is still looking at him.

"C'mon, man," Shawn says. "Don't look at me like that."

But Gus just keeps staring.

"Okay, alright, _fine_." Gus never, ever believes that anything Shawn does could maybe be for his own good. Like tricking him into losing the spelling bee, or stealing that Godawful windbreaker, or not telling him that there was something really wrong going down in Santa Barbara. And not something wrong like it's raining without there being any clouds or getting pulled over while doing five under the speed limit, which reminds him… "Hey, did you get those plate numbers?"

Gus nods. "Yeah, I gave them to Juliet."

"What? No! Gus, she's a cop!"

"Yeah, so?"

Shawn doesn't see why he needs to _explain_ to Gus how it's bad for business, having other people figure stuff out before he can. But Jules is pretty busy with the whole zombie uprising thing and won't get to helping Gus out for at least a day. Probably. Plenty of time.

"Okay, that doesn't matter right now," he says, sitting down and tapping himself on the temple. "I'll just have to figure out a way to work that into my—"

"Shawn!"

Shawn looks up. "Huh? Oh, oh. Yeah. Don't you think it's weird? First there's the thing with the Rodriguez guy, and then those two guys show up to check it out?"

Gus is blanking out. "What two guys?"

Man, he'll have to go all the way back to the beginning. "Listen, that guy that showed up at the office today? He's got a brother, and their names are Sam and Dean, and they're super paranoid. Sam wouldn't even tell me their last name."

Gus still has that skeptical expression on his face, but Shawn can tell he's getting into it. He can't help it, he's _Gus_, and he's loved solving mysteries ever since they were kids. He slides into the seat next to Shawn – the only other chair in the place – and says, "What, you asked him for his last name?"

"No, but you could tell it was on the tip of his tongue, and he just… anyway, he didn't tell me much, but it sounds like the two of them just look into stuff like this. They don't have jobs, this is all they do."

Gus still isn't following, though, and Shawn wonders if there's anything important that he's left out.

"Stuff like _what_, Shawn?" Gus asks. "What kind of stuff do they look into?"

Shawn shrugs. "You know. Your kind of stuff."

Which could mean anything. Books, cartoons, computers, pharmaceuticals, comics, trivia… "What does that _mean_?" Gus asks, apparently on a similar train of thought.

"You know," Shawn repeats, making a vague motion with one of his hands that conveys nothing at all. "Ghosts?"

Gus looks at him.

"What?"

"Shawn, that's _not_ my kind of thing," Gus says indignantly, sitting up straighter.

"Yes it is! You're the one with the, the books and the EM whatever reader and the _Ghost Hunters_ DVDs!"

"I got those for Christmas, Shawn! I got those for Christmas from _you_." He's caught up in the argument, narrowing his eyes like he always does when he's getting annoyed – and that's great, because he just might forget— "Wait a minute, Shawn, you're saying these guys… _investigate_… you know, stuff like that?"

Shawn hesitates.

He've got a lot of stories balanced in his head right now. He's got a hobbyist from Arizona, a cousin who's never met his brother, two guys who are all business about the dead, psychic powers which only work some of the time, people who don't stay dead, Lassy's _we don't say a word_, and not all of those are even lies, really, but it's enough to start confusing even him.

There's also the truth. As much as he knows, anyway.

He leans forward. "Okay, Gus, it's like this. How many times did you watch _Night of the Living Dead?_"


End file.
